


I'll Keep the King

by AdmirableMonster (Mertiya)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Mercy Killing, Not Quite Assisted Suicide, Oath of Fëanor, Oaths are bad news, Post-Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27142540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/AdmirableMonster
Summary: Maglor kills Maedhros after the Nirnaeth.  He tries to keep going but it all spirals out of his control.
Relationships: Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 18
Kudos: 74





	I'll Keep the King

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to discord server for IDEAS  
> moiety basaltserpent et al for cheering me on
> 
> title from King by The Amazing Devil

Maedhros lay like one already dead.In one hand, he held the single blood-spattered golden ribbon he'd rescued from Fingon’s remains—it wasn’t even a corpse.There wasn’t enough left to call it a corpse. 

Maedhros wasn’t even crying.He wasn’t talking.He wasn’t—responding.To anything.Maglor had gotten him off the battlefield, somehow, and coaxed away all the other brothers in the hopes that it would be enough, but at this point he didn’t think it was going to be.And he was beginning to wonder if it was sheer cruelty to leave Maedhros like this.He was so tired.Thirty years of torment in Angband he survived, and he still came back, to take the crown and the leadership from Maglor, to _save_ Maglor, and this was how he was repaid? 

Maglor looked down at the steaming drink in his hand.He had made it for Maedhros, to help him to sleep.It was a strong-tasting cider and the addition of another substance would probably be unnoticeable.He thought he could probably get his brother to drink it.Should he?

The voice in his mind sounded less like his and more like Ambarussar’s. _Already a kinslayer.Already a murderer.And, of course, Maglor-Makalaurë-Kanafinwë, you have already killed one brother.What’s one more?_

He looked over again at Maedhros, who had just made the softest, saddest, most broken little noise, as he stroked the ribbon, as if it were Fingon’s hair—as if it were _Fingon_.And it was all that was left.

Maglor moved as if in a dream.He reached for the little bottle of laudanum that they kept for Maedhros’s nightmares—one to two drops was usually enough.More than enough, the healers had said.Maglor stared for a long moment at the dark liquid, and then he upended it into the cider, stirring it carefully to let it dissolve.Then he sat himself at his brother’s side.“Will you drink?” he heard himself say, his voice soft and coaxing.“It will make you sleep, Nelyo.”

Those dazed eyes did not really track, but when Maglor put the cup to his lips, Maedhros sipped at it, wrinkling his nose slightly.The taste must be bitter despite Maglor’s care.“It will make you sleep,” Maglor repeated softly, stroking his brother’s hair.“You will dream of Fingon, Nelyo, I promise.Drink it.”

There was only a minute hesitation before his brother complied, continuing to sip at the hot mixture until he had drained it to the dregs.Then he lay back, stroking the ribbon again, as Maglor continued to comb fingers through his hair softly.

Maglor watched as his older brother’s eyelids grew heavy, as his eyes slowly shut.He listened as his brother’s breaths lengthened and grew shallower, as if in sleep.But they grew shallower still.Maglor continued to pet him as the Moon rose and his skin cooled like ice.His brother was so cold, Maglor thought—he had never been so cold.His brother, the spirit of fire, the furnace who had warmed him when he was a child and shivering.And now he was very, very cold, lips and fingertips turning blue.Maglor tucked another blanket around him, foolish as it was, then took down the little glass bottle that had contained laudanum and crushed it underneath his own heel.He wasn’t sure why he did that.

The tent was very quiet.

* * *

It was Amras who confronted Maglor about it.He had expected Curufin or perhaps Celegorm, but it was Amras who waited for him in his tent the day after the brothers found Nelyo’s body.

“Why did you do it?” Amras asked softly.

Maglor’s footsteps lightened and his body language changed as he went into the mental space he usually reserved for performances in front of large groups.“What is it you think I did?” he asked, with perfect neutrality.

“You killed Nelyo.”Those dark eyes, accusing him: first for the twin lost at Losgar, now for his eldest brother— _Oh, Nelyo, the best of us!_ “I know you did.Did you want so badly to be the leader?”

_The flames of Losgar on his face; the weight of the crown forcing his head down; the pain and loss and blankness in Nelyo’s eyes and voice looking down at the crushed remnants of his husband—_

Amras did not need to know of that pain.

Maglor regarded his littlest brother coolly.“A dangerous question, don’t you think?” he heard himself ask from a distance.Amras stared at him, shocky, then rose and left the tent.

* * *

The Elves at Doriath laid their hands upon a Silmaril.Celegorm called for war and bloodshed.Maglor tried to convince his brothers to send a request—at least to begin—but Curufin asked him why he wished to afford mercy to thieves.

“I spoke with Amras,” Curufin said, and his dark eyes were turned darker, a flush that was perhaps anger or perhaps excitement growing on his face.“Do you wish us to forsake our Oath?Do you wish our eldest brother to be damned to the Void?”

Maglor shivered and found that he had no voice. 

They went to Doriath with blades unsheathed.

Celegorm killed Dior; Curufin killed Nimloth.Their three children tried to escape into the forest with the Silmaril, and the Fëanorions pursued them. Amras was slain by one of the children’s guards, but Celegorm and Curufin took the victory at last.

“Do not kill the children,” Maglor said softly. 

Celegorm shrugged.“Very well.They will be fitting trophies,” he replied.Caranthir tried to take the Silmaril from the girl’s hand and gave a cry.“It burns!” he said, staring down at his fingers.“Why does it burn?”

* * *

With a Silmaril—even a burning Silmaril—there would be no holding back Celegorm and Curufin.Maglor saw that the children were given food and water; Curufin saw that each of them was given a jeweled collar.The Silmaril he set into the girl’s collar—Elwing’s.There were slots made in the boys’ collars for the other two.Wishful thinking, to Maglor’s mind.Without their father, without Maedhros—without the will of the Ainur—there was no hope that they would be able to retrieve the other two from Morgoth.And thus, no hope for any of them.No hope for Nelyo.No hope.

The children grew quieter day by day.Celegorm grew more erratic, boasting wildly of challenging Morgoth. _But you never do,_ Maglor thought, singing sad songs to a disintegrating fortress.Curufin grew more covetous of the children—Elwing, in particular.Several times, Maglor had to stop him from taking her away by herself.He didn’t want to know what Curufin wanted.And he certainly didn’t want to find out once it had already happened.

But Maglor remembered when his brothers were young, before the Oath.The Silmarils had taken them and twisted them.Celegorm had been brave and reckless, not cruel and reckless.Curufin’s silences had been warm, not icy.Caranthir had smiled.

If Maglor were to rebel against the Oath—alone— surely he could shoulder the curse himself?It would not mean Nelyo’s loss to the Void.Surely.Nelyo, who had done nothing wrong.It would be Maglor who was damned, and in any case he was already: four times a kinslayer, twice his own brothers.Thrice, really, for not protecting Amras either.

He took the children in the middle of the night and rode away with them, leaving behind his brothers who would surely chase him.But Maglor could ride swifter than any of them.He left the children near a Mannish settlement, where they would find protection.Elwing cried when he took the Silmaril and left.He hoped his shadow would flee swiftly from her nightmares.

The Silmaril burned his hand, so he tucked it away in a piece of cloth, for he needed to be able to concentrate.The burning song of those Silmarils, he thought dreamily, was like the lullabies his father had sung to him when he was tiny. 

He rode for Angband.His horse he set free before within a few miles of that cursed fortress, and from there he walked on foot.Up to the gate he walked, his harp in one hand.“I come to parley with Morgoth!” he cried.

They took him, then, the creatures of Angband, laughing at him and crowing and mocking.He let them.Let them pull at him, pinch him, rend his clothes and rip at his flesh until his cloak and tunic were tatters and he was bleeding from a dozen scrapes and scratches.But in the end, they did take him to Morgoth, probably so that Morgoth could enjoy playing with the eldest remaining Fëanorion himself.

Maglor waited until he was in the throne room, in the presence of the dark creature who had killed his father, and then he took the Silmaril out into his hand and held it up, shining, like the two matching ones on Morgoth’s brow.It burned, but he was past caring.

As Morgoth and his creatures stared in confusion—for why would Maglor bring the Silmaril here where it would only be retaken?—Maglor opened his mouth and began to sing.When he was much younger, he had once shattered a water glass with his voice, and he had had to put up with weeks of Findekáno getting him to “accidentally” destroy the wine glasses of people at parties he particularly disliked (most of them had probably been flirting with Maitimo, in retrospect).It hurt Maglor’s throat to do it too often and eventually it grew dull to Finno, but he knew, even now, that all it took to break a crystal was a sound—a voice—in the correct resonance.

With the Silmaril searing the flesh of his hand, he could find that resonance almost trivially.

He sang, his voice climbing higher and higher.All around him, the creatures of Morgoth fell as if stunned, with blood flowing from their eyes and mouths.Maglor’s voice burned inside of him, and the Silmaril burned the outside of him, and it hurt, it hurt, but it didn’t matter—

He went against the Oath alone, for his brothers’ sake, and before the terrible music of his voice, all three Silmarils broke apart into white light, faded, and were gone.

Maglor felt the darkness of unconsciousness claim him then.

* * *

He woke to darkness, to pain in his wrists and throat, and Morgoth’s foul promise in his ears that he would never speak again nor ever see the light of day.Maglor did not much care.He was doomed no matter what, and it made little difference whether he lived out that sentence beneath the roots of Angband or in the far cold reaches of the Void.There was no torment Morgoth could offer he would not accept, gladly, for his hands were stained with the blood of those he held most dear.

He did not know how long he was kept there, with only the soft sound of trickling water for company.At first, Morgoth sent Sauron to torment him, but the visits became less frequent with the passing of time and eventually stopped altogether.Maglor wondered idly if he had been forgotten, if he would eventually become one with the stone of the mountain, a smooth, water-worn statue of an Elf.

He saw a light moving towards him, like a little fiery star, and he wondered what it could be.There were voices in the darkness, dear, impossible voices.

“He must be down here; it is the only place left we have not searched.”

“What if he isn’t?”

“Then we will _keep searching_.”

Maglor had gone quite mad now, for it seemed to him he could hear Nelyo’s voice and Finno’s answering him.The light moved closer and beyond it was a second light, and a third.When the first light fell upon his face, it burned his eyes so that he flinched and tried to make a rough noise of pain, though he knew that his vocal cords had long ago been severed and no sound came out.

“ _Káno_.”Two large hands on his face—Maitimo’s hands—both of them, somehow.He was dreaming.He must be dreaming.“Help me get him down.”

Beyond Nelyo, it _did_ seem to be Finno, and beyond him Tyelko and Curvo and Moryo and the Ambarussar.Such a strange, bewildering dream, to hear kindness in the voice of the brother he had killed so long ago, to feel gentleness in the hands that broke his chains and pulled him down and massaged his poor ragged wrists, his poor numb hands.

“He is _hurt_ —oh Káno—“Finno’s fingers ran across the thick ridged scar on his throat.“They have taken his _voice_.”Tears were shining in Maglor’s cousin’s eyes.Tears in the eyes of the other brothers surrounding him.

It was Nelyo, his red hair falling about his face, who gathered Maglor into his arms and held him tightly.“Shhhh, little brother, how long have they kept thee here like this?Long enough for Finno and me and the Ambarussar to return and make our long way back.Thou’rt safe now, though I know thou wilt not believe it yet.I know what it is to be taken from Angband in safety.”

It was a beautiful vision, and Maglor wept and pressed his face into his brother’s neck.Nelyo carried him through the darkness and out into the silvery moonlight, with all the rest crowding along behind.

It was a beautiful vision, and it could not be true, for was Maglor not thrice-damned and cursed?Perhaps the dream-Nelyo had heard the thought with his _osanwë_ : his eyes went a little wider, and he kissed Maglor’s brow.“Thrice-damned and cursed for saving thy family from the shackles of an Oath that nearly killed us all?No, sweet Káno.I promise, thou hast suffered enough.I promise, whatever Mandos may say, whatever the Valar may demand, I will stand by thy side and keep thee safe.Not an oath, but my promise to you as your eldest brother.”

“And I will fight anyone who tries to hurt thee!” Fingon exclaimed.“Thou sent Nelyo to me when he would have stayed and broken himself upon the rocks of that cursed Oath.Thou took the weight of it all upon thyself to keep thy brothers safe.”He grinned and ran a hand through his dark hair.“Thou art a hero, little Káno.”

It would be many days before Maglor believed the evidence of his own eyes and his own senses; many months before he healed enough to write in shaky letters to his brothers; many years before the music that thrilled in his veins returned to him and poured out how it might—but it was then that Maglor felt a return to hope.


End file.
